Acting like you don't care is not letting go. I tried. It worked for about a month and then it failed. I tried so hard to forget you, to push down these feelings to stop them from getting bigger. I cut of all contacts with you, changed numbers, just so I could prevent this from turning into something else. But sadly, you were growing on me... like a rash. I just wanted to flush you out of my system. On the first day of not communicating with you, I was very happy that my entire world wasn't revolving around you anymore. Two days went by, and I was focusing more on my work to keep myself from thinking about you, because thoughts are distractions and I couldn't afford to be distracted by you- your smile, your eyes, everything. I shouldn't think about that yet.
More days went by and I was going through withdrawal. It's like you were this drug- I was addicted. I was your cure and you were my disease. I was saving you, but you were killing me. I wanted to talk to you, badly. Every single day that passed when I wasn't talking to you, made me want you even more. And it sucks. I know I'm only bringing this upon myself. But I need to talk to you.
It seemed like I was an empty space and you were the only one that could fill it. You fill out all the gaps between my broken heart and soul. I need you to hold me until I fail to remember how dismayed I am of all that is amiss in my life.
It's just me though. Overthinking, playing out the "what could've beens". The hardest kind of resistance is when you're resisting yourself. When your heart wants something and your brain prevents it. When you feel like blowing up, but prefer to explode in your deepest depths so no one around you can feel it. When the next week came, I had this urge to talk to you. But I couldn't. I just couldn't bring myself to.
I end this letter with a quote, one I could've shared with you if only I had brought myself to speak to you:
"I haven't written anything for a month, then I saw your face and I've written 30 poems."
YOU ARE READING
Open Letters to the One
PoetryA collection of letters that were written but never shared. The words come from a place of pure emotion.
